


Sleepless Nights

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Slash, fallen banners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor, Maeglin, and a generous helping of tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr. The result of swapping headcanons with a friend.

The forge had grown cool. The maw of the great furnace was choked with ash, and the sword that had been thrust inside to heat was now glinting dully, forgotten. Celebrimbor shook out his aching wrist and leaned his hip against the workbench, blinking away the stinging weariness of his eyes. He let the polishing cloth droop from his fingers and bent appraising eyes on the bracelet in his other hand. 

A delicate circlet of silver it was, filigree threads of metal winding and twisting like gleaming vines, unadorned save for the tiny round opals with seeping, moiling colors that caught the failing candlelight and refracted it into a bright glitter. Celebrimbor squinted distastefully at it in the half-light of the forge, and a frown tightened his features as he cast a critical eye over the imperfect smoothness of the metal, the notched straightness of the silver threads, the sloping mount of a gem. The bracelet did not need polishing, but he raised the cloth all the same, and felt the ache settle dull and tender in his wrist again. He felt his hand slipping, too rough on such fragile jewelry, and closed his eyes with the heaviness of sleep. 

The image, that familiar, maddening image, coalesced insidiously in his mind, and he did not, he could not admit around whose wrist he clasped the bracelet in his most secret thoughts. The loveliness of the opals against pale skin. The delicacy of the metalwork coiled round that tiny, jutting bone. 

A flame guttered and hissed out in a sudden whoosh of cool air. Instinct dragged him out of the blanketed awareness of the weary, out of his fanciful romps, and he spun round only to come face to face with Maeglin. 

And suddenly he felt too exposed in his breeches and simple coarse tunic; suddenly he felt like a child caught red-handed, and for a moment he could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at the elf before him—who looked every bit as flustered as he himself felt, standing there with his hand glued to the doorframe. 

“Tyelpë,” Maeglin began, but his voice was a low scrape. He coughed, shifting slightly, and continued with a frown: “I did not look to find you here.” 

“I could not sleep,” Celebrimbor lied softly. He glanced away, lowering his gaze to the bracelet in his hands as with deliberate care, and deliberate slowness, he placed it on the table. 

Maeglin smiled, tightly, though in the gloom Celebrimbor could not see it. “Neither could I,” he replied, evenly. He was using his official voice, the one he propelled loud and neutral in King Turgon’s court, Celebrimbor noted, and felt the heat in his cheeks broil beneath the skin. Since when did he notice the inflections in Maeglin’s voice? 

A beat passed between them. “I should be leaving,” Celebrimbor whispered, hurriedly, _stupidly_. Shutters seemed to be slammed down over Maeglin’s face, but truly, Celebrimbor, thought, _hoped_ , in this gloom it was impossible to tell. 

In silence Maeglin allowed his hand to slip from the doorframe. He stepped up to the bench, and waited, trying not to think. And then seized with a queer, irrepressible throb of excitement, he turned, heart in his throat, but Celebrimbor had left. He had not even heard the door. 

* * *

The next day dawned painfully bright. The freshness of spring still lingered, and birds chirped, joyous, beneath a pale blue sky. 

Celebrimbor stumbled up wide marble stairs toward the higher reaches of Gondolin with sleep in his eyes and doubt in his heart. The one balcony he preferred perched upon a pinnacle of rock, looking out toward the north and the hazy line of the far-distant Echoriath. It was secluded, and overhung with ivy, and that morning it had been monopolized. 

As familiar dark curls bounced into view, the desperate, tiny thought of fleeing flashed through his mind. Turning on his heel and leaving. Maeglin would never know. But then, as it always happened, he heard that dreadful cloying loop in his head that reminded him of his father. _You, a coward, Tyelperinquar?_ And then he thought, bravely, that it was foolish, unwarranted, this anxiety of his; but as soon as he drew level with Maeglin, nervousness settled sick and giddy in his belly, and he could not bring himself to question why. 

Maeglin said nothing. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, resting lightly on the low stone parapet, and stared out across the verdant, wind-swept plains toward the teeth of the mountains. Celebrimbor, goaded by some strange impulse, some perverse, electrifying impetus, openly stared at Maeglin. Shadows clustered beneath his eyes like bruises punched deep into the skin, and he thought briefly about asking if he had slept at all last night, asking _why_ he had not slept, but decided that for now silence was enough. 

The air was cool and fragrant with the ripened blossoms of spring, and Celebrimbor’s nerves transmuted into something lovely and heady, and he blushed with this jittery delight, without knowing why. 

“That bracelet you were working on demonstrates adroit craftsmanship,” Maeglin said, quietly, without glancing his way. 

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor stuttered out, automatically, like an arrow released too early. He felt the blush spread to the very tips of his ears and waited for Maeglin to say something else. But Maeglin remained silent. Celebrimbor bit at his lip, unconsciously. 

“There are defects, you know,” he began in a fumbling tone, awkward and embarrassed. “I was too harsh with the metal, and now there are dents in the finishing. And the opals,” he inhaled, glancing sideways, uncertainly, “the setting could have been smoother, better melded into the metal.” 

Maeglin nodded absently, still not looking at him, still not speaking. Celebrimbor sighed, his shoulders slumped and he grimaced at the bitterness left festering within him. It tasted like ash in his mouth, it clogged up his airways and floated choking and potent in his lungs, this disappointment, this _frustration_ … 

“I still think it is beautiful,” Maeglin murmured, so softly that the breeze snatched the words off his lips. If Celebrimbor had stood any farther, he would not have heard them. 

“Thank you,” he said again, and this time he meant it. 

* * *

When he thought back on it, he found it ridiculous. So long spent tripping over words and their own legs in their attempts to get away when they could have been doing this instead. 

The streets of Gondolin were deserted beneath the starry sky, and Celebrimbor had been hounded to his forge again by thoughts of dark eyes and dark curls and a dark mind. 

He did not realize that Maeglin was there. No candles had been lit, and in the gloom he did not notice the figure leaning its elbows on the workbench until, stretching for a candle, his fingers brushed against flesh instead of wax. He drew back as though singed and did not need to ask to know who it was. 

“What are you doing here?” he queried, too hurriedly, too bluntly in his surprise. 

Maeglin said nothing. He picked himself off the table to look Celebrimbor in the eye. His surrounds had sharpened into focus, and he could see the glitter of those eyes even in the darkness of the forge. 

“Maeglin—” he breathed, but suddenly hands were at his waist, his lower back was pressing into the bench, and lips ghosted over his own. He forgot whatever he had wanted to say. 

It was fumbling and messy, their first kiss. Uncertain lips and spilled emotions. They did not know what to do with their hands. Celebrimbor found himself pulling his fingers through Maeglin’s hair, dragging at the clasp that held it back, eliciting a groan. The apology was kissed off his lips, he handed it to Maeglin on the tip of his tongue. 

It felt strange and breathless and sweltering. The intimacy of the hot flush of Maeglin’s breath over his face and neck sent a shiver of pleasure dancing through him. He smiled, shyly, recklessly, and though Maeglin could not see it, he could feel the quirk of his lips against his own. 

“I never knew I wanted to do this,” Celebrimbor whispered drunkenly. Maeglin laughed a short breathless laugh. His hands tightened in Celebrimbor’s tunic, and wordlessly he kissed him again. 

They held hands as they left the forge. Celebrimbor gazed up at the stars and smiled, blissful and for the moment ignorant of all but the texture of Maeglin’s skin against his own. The slender bones in his fingers. The mountain range of his knuckles. 

That night he spilled himself over the sheets with _finally_ aching in his heart and a smile in place for so long that his lips tingled. That night he slipped into honeyed, dreamless slumber, while Maeglin paced the floor of his rooms, picturing hazel eyes and golden-brown skin, and wondering at himself.  



End file.
